Vern sat backward in a chair, his arms draped over the backrest. His tea had gone cold, but he continued to swirl the liquid absentmindedly, his attention fixed on an oval living room mirror. His reflection stared back, but it felt… off. The edges of his features seemed sharper, more pronounced—almost like someone else. His eyes, though, were the most unsettling. The pupils were jagged, fractured, their edges like broken glass, stark against his light grey irises. His stomach tightened, a cold knot forming in his gut. What’s happening to me?
The market outside was eerily quiet, its usual clamor now a faint murmur. The air felt heavier, the absence of voices and footsteps enhancing the void that pressed against him. It sat at the heart of the living sector 13, just across from his mother’s habitat. Well, now it was his, he supposed. Chaotic thoughts clawed at his mind, a tangle of confusion and grief. That particular combination he never handled well, or even at all. Especially when he was alone. And beneath it all, a faint, nagging question: What now?
His gaze left the mirror and found the robes hanging on the wall. Deep carmine fabric, rich and vibrant, trimmed with black and gold in every intricate stitch. The sleeves and collar bore fine details—the Robes of a Veil Speaker. A stark reminder of her absence.
It had been twenty three days since her letter. She wasn’t coming back. The words in her familiar script had been clear, but the silence that followed was unbearable. Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why just vanish? That question lodged itself in his chest, festering. There were 26 living sectors spread across three levels, in one of humanity''s last bastion of safety. The letter had been final. She was gone. Where would she even go? The Last Vigil crossed his mind, but he doubted she would have gone there, dwellers like them can’t simply walk in. With a long exhale, he tried to empty his mind, fixating on the robe.
But that was interrupted by a welcoming distraction. The distraction talked loudly with someone outside the habitat. Vern smiled faintly at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the front door, the dark thoughts momentarily lifting. The front door opened with all the grace of a tunnel drill. Finn walked past Vern, half a loaf of bread in hand, and made a beeline for the cooler unit. He rummaged inside, pulling out a half-empty jar of paté, then—like he often did—opened the cooler again for another look before finally closing it. Sniffing the jar he grimaced, shrugged, and smeared some paté onto the bread.
Finn frowned, his brow furrowing as he chewed. “You look like a heap of slag, little Brotta.”
"You''re the little one. I’m older.” Vern said, voice flat.
Finn retorted with a full mouth, “You know Lady Mareen made up your birthday, y’know? Just lucky she picked three days before mine.”
Vern looked him in the eyes, “When have you ever known her to be wrong?” He asked seriously.
Finn met his gaze briefly before looking away, then shrugged and let out a familiar grunt, his face hardening as his eyes flicked back to Vern. “You know she didn’t do anythin’ without a reason. She wouldn’t want you this way again.” A moment of silence passed before his gaze softened, and he gestured toward Vern’s eyes. “I’m worried ‘bout those. How’s your eyes?”
“Eyesight is fine, it’s the pain that bothers me,” Vern said while rubbing them.
Finn tossed the last bit of bread into his mouth. “Let me see.” He crouched next to Vern.
“Rusts…” Finn’s voice dropped, and spoke with unease. “It’s worse than before. The pupil—it’s, uh, fragmentin’. The edges are all over the place. How is that not affectin’ your vision?”
Vern frowned, rubbed his eyes, fingers pressing harder than necessary, as if trying to push the pain away.. “I have no clue what’s going on, but I can see fine, all right?” The fear gnawed at him relentlessly, the thought of losing sight was beyond terrifying.
“Oh!” Finn exclaimed, digging in his pockets, then tossing a dozen plastic c-chips on the table, the smallest credit denomination. “From the donation—uh, tribute box in front. Same place where I got that bread.”
Vern groaned. “Everyone knows she’s gone. I told them tributes ain’t needed or wanted anymore.”
Finn scratched his chin, thinking for a second. “Guess this is their way of sayin’ thanks to her, by helpin’ you out, y’know? She brought a lot of closure over the years.”
Vern exhaled, “I guess. Just feels weird.” His mind was still spinning—the potential loss of eyesight, his mother’s departure—but Finn snapped his fingers, pulling him in a new direction.
“Got it! Grab the chips. Let’s head to the pit. Finn flashed a grin, but there was a shine in his eye that Vern knew all too well. “Heard the champ from Sector Two’s comin’ by. Bet you ten creds I can get him to fight me. Our 18th birthdays are comin’ up in a couple of weeks. Let’s make sure we can celebrate it properly, y’know.”
Finn’s favorite pastime was brawling in the local pit, and his build reflected it. Broad shoulders, thick arms—proof of a decade spent training and working hard. He carried himself with a relaxed confidence, his wavy black curls brushing against his ears. Behind the grin and the brawn, Finn was cleverer than most gave him credit for. Vern knew him well.
Vern exhaled, knee cracked from sitting too long in one position as he stood up. He emptied the cold tea into the sink. “I know what you’re doing, Finn. Fine.” He stretched his stiff muscles on his way to the back of the habitat where the rooms and the bathroom were.
He stepped into the small bathroom, the weak light barely cutting through the gloom. Vern splashed water on his face, the cold biting against his skin, but it didn’t clear his head the way he wanted. He blinked the sting away and looked up at the mirror. His reflection unsettled him, same as it did earlier. He forced himself to ignore it, but it was difficult. The chiseled features, the hard jawline, and sharp cheekbones. The intense gaze stared back from the mirror, that at least has not changed. Even in the dim light, his jagged pupils caught the eye—too sharp, too unnatural. Impossible to ignore. Too noticeable. His dirty-blond hair, almost reaching his shoulders, was pulled back into a tail with a piece of string he took from the shelf, a motion he had done countless times. The string snapped. A small thing, but it made him pause. He stared at the broken ends between his fingers, an odd unease settling in his gut. Then rummaged through the cabinet for another. He was more careful with that one.
After dressing in a simple grey shirt and black trousers, Vern returned to Finn, who fidgeted with a dark box. “What’s that?”
Finn turned toward him. “It’s for you. Spent two hours diggin’ for it last night. Here.” He extended the box toward Vern. “Happy early birthday.”
Vern took it, curiosity piqued, and examined the dark red surface. A golden logo—an etched eight point star of Concord. Then, his fingers paused, noticing the texture. “Is… is this real wood?” He glanced at Finn, his eyes wide. “I can’t take this.”
Finn waved his hand dismissively. “Please, I’d never get a fair price even if I tried to sell it. I’d have to go to Vigil, and you know how they look at us dwellers. Besides, the present’s what’s inside.”
Slowly, Vern lifted the lid. Eyes going wide. Lined with red padding, it held a pair of silver frames. Intricate engravings, miniature pictures and text ran along the arms and bridge, their craftsmanship delicate and precise. But the large round lenses stole the show. They were a deep shade of cobalt, catching the light in such a way that their color seemed to ripple, shifting between rich hues. Their elegance was unlike anything Vern had ever seen. He couldn’t find his voice.
“Dad said they belonged to one of our ancestors,” Finn said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Before we were buried here.” He scratched his chin, his usual grin fading. “Look, Vern… I… Just take the damn things. Mareen and you saved my life,” he said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “Takin’ me in when Dad was taken away. Those years were rough, and I only made it through because of you two. I see you both as family.” He scratched his chin, his expression tightening. “It kills me to see you like this again. You were... doin’ better. Losing Penno and Lela hurt me as well, but we have to move on, they’d want that.”
Vern nodded slowly then carefully took frames in his hands. “I know you’d take me in if the situation was reversed, you don’t owe me for that, but Nova’s breath, Finn, this is way too much.” He gently placed them on his head.
“The outside looks like a mirror. No one can see your eyes, you don’t have to worry about drawin’ attention.”
Vern took them off and turned them around, holding them up with his eyebrow raised. With a sigh, he said, “These alone will attract too much attention, look at them. I appreciate the gesture Finn, but I can’t casually walk around wearing those. They’ll invite more questions than my fucked up eyes.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Finn fished another box out of his jacket, his grin returning. “Assumed as much”, he said, tossing it to Vern, who caught it in his free hand. “This is for everyday use.”
The box felt different, but still like wood. Vern opened it and found black frames of the same type. Silver trident logo etched on them, but nothing else. He touched them—ceramic, maybe? Not plastic, not metal. The lenses had a similar mirror effect. He tried them on, they fit perfectly.
Finn pointed at the frames, “Found a couple more. Looks like he really liked that type. These two looked the best.”
Vern took them off to examine them better, “Think we’ll ever see a sun, a proper one?”
Finn’s grin returned, his usual energy creeping back into his voice. “Who knows, brotta? Maybe the sun’s just waitin’ for us.” He clapped Vern on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Fine, you win,” Vern said, confidence building as he grabbed his short dark jacket. The cool press of ceramic against his face carried a strange exhilaration, a sharp reminder that he was alive, and should stop dwelling on the past so much.
***
As they walked, workers streamed back from their shifts. Sector 13 revolved around poultry production, and nearly everyone here was tied to it. The main street was lined with metal walkways, the entire sector built from cheap, corroding steel. A team of rust scrubbers worked on a nearby building, scraping away oxidation and treating what remained. The air was thick—stale and damper than usual—with the sharp tang of rust hanging heavy.
Vern tiled the head back. He glanced up at the large strips of light dominating the high cavern ceiling. The artificial strips of sun dimmed as the hour grew late. When he looked up, the lenses darkened, protecting his vision. The planet’s actual rotation around the sun lasted 49 hours, but that didn’t mean much underground, where Concord’s standard 26-hour days dictated life.
Ahead, a crowd had already gathered in front of the Temple of Nova. Some workers veered straight there, joining the others. The short, plump abbot stood outside the temple, chatting with a small group. His expression soured when he spotted Vern, and his frown was a lingering reminder of Vern’s mother’s troubled reputation with the Abbey.
Two Sentinels flanked the church doors. Their blue uniforms and black half-armor covered their chests, shins, and forearms, the polished plating glinting faintly. Their weapons remained holstered—not that they needed them here. Defying the Vigil was suicide. They had the tech, and knew how to use it. The Sentinels did not police the sectors, they just protected key figures they deemed necessary to keep alive and in line at the same time.
Vern hadn’t been completely honest with Finn about his eyesight. As they walked, the shapes returned—shards of prismatic triangles swarmed his vision, twisting and refracting like broken glass, they moved as if caught in the wind. A sharp stab of pain lanced through his skull, forcing him to wince and rub his eyes beneath the frames.
Finn’s hand found his shoulder, steadying him until the pain ebbed away. Vern exhaled slowly, his vision clearing as the triangles dissolved back into nothingness. Yet a faint shimmer lingered in his peripheral sight, teasing the edge of awareness. He had started to notice he could see them when he consciously unfocused his vision, their meaning still unclear. A cold drop of sweat slid down his neck as an old fear clawed its way back into his mind—what if he was going blind?
As the light from the sunstrip above them faded, the normal street lamps turned on. The frames adjusted, going almost transparent in low light. The fighting pit was in the warehouse district of sector 13, as most seedy things were. Like all sectors, 13 had its modest peacekeeping force, but this district saw few of them—at least, the honest ones. Finn took the lead here, walking a step ahead of Vern. Everyone stuck together in packs here, by their reactions, most recognized Finn. In places like this, toughness commanded respect. As they approached their destination, two men intercepted them. A green pin of an arrowhead on their collar clearly identified who they represent, they simply pointed down the street, and left without further elaboration.
Vern groaned, “What does he want, have you had any contact with him lately?”
“No, I avoided him like rat fever.” He turned and started moving down the street.
Vern followed, knowing they had no choice. They walked to the closest living sector, a perfect place if you had chips to spend, and Blaine had a piece of every transaction. They turned the corner into the noisy street. Multiple enforcers stood watch, regulating access to gambler dens, brothels, chip lenders, everything packed in one street. Green arrowhead pins on coat collars marked those who’d proven their loyalty and earned a place in his service. Vern and Finn had been offered the same symbol two years ago, but that memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Blaine’s headquarters towered above the district, its dark green facade a rare, almost defiant indulgence in a world of gray. To Vern, it was an insult—a reminder that while most struggled to survive, Blaine flaunted his wealth.
As they walked, two sentinels caught their attention, a speck of blue in the sea of green and gray. These ones had rifles in their hands as they stood at each side of Blaine’s HQ. The crowd gave them a wide berth. A few minutes later, sector 13’s administrator emerged from Blaine’s building, clutching a bag that he handed off to one of the sentinels. They moved on without a glance, leaving the busy street with haste.
“Even the new administrator is a rat,” Vern spat.
“Well, Blaine likes to collect rats, come brotta, let’s get this over with.”
The heavy air of scrutiny greeted them the moment they stepped inside. The lobby had a dozen people lounging, eyes followed their every move, but no one interfered. Blaine’s audience chamber was a destination few visited. They descended the stairs to the basement, the path familiar: a sharp turn, a long, dim hallway, and finally, a pair of towering double doors. Unguarded, the doors slowly opened as they approached. Unsettling by design.
The chamber reinforced that thought, it unfolded like a stage set for intimidation. Only the center of the room basked in light, guiding the eye to the raised chair at its heart, half-shrouded in shadow. Every detail was calculated to instill unease. Figures moved along the edges of the room, cloaked in darkness, their movements punctuated by the sound of water splashing—an odd, effective, new addition. Despite himself, Vern had to glance at the sounds. On the stairs leading up to Blaine’s seat, two topless women lay sprawled, their arms moving through the air as if reaching for something unseen, their glazed eyes fixed on nothing.
Then came the final stroke, Blaine opened his eyes. Artificial and glowing crimson, the glow swallowed the distance between them, searing its presence into Vern’s mind. Their effect was undeniable, a presence that demanded attention and obedience.
“Ah, the prodigal sons return.” Blaine’s voice slithered from every corner of the room, smooth and suffocating.
“We’re not your rustin’ sons. Just get to it—what d''ya want?” Finn snapped.
Vern shot his friend a warning look and grabbed his forearm, squeezing just hard enough to ground him. He stepped forward, forcing a calm he didn’t quite feel. With an exaggerated glance around the room, Vern whistled. “Nice new setup you’ve got here.” His gaze locked onto those burning ember eyes. “But we both know showmanship doesn’t work on us. Why are we here?”
Blaine’s laughter echoed, rich and taunting, circling them like a predator stalking its prey. “Oh, it worked just fine on your friend there. But then, he always wore emotion on his sleeve.”
Vern’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “It didn’t work. He just hates you. And frankly, so do I.”
Light flashed over Blaine, he wore a dark green suit with a red vest. He was tall and slender, black hair slicked back. “Hate is a strong word, you asked for my help and I gave you the price.” The voice effect also stopped, he sat forward, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry Pollena died.”
“It’s not wor..” Finn’s yelling was interrupted by Vern snapping his hand back.
“I understand loss,” Blaine looked down and was quiet for a moment, then looked back at them, “It’s one thing I’m unfortunately quite intimate with.” He leaned back in the chair. “But, my part of that contract was fulfilled, Concord level medicine was given. It’s not on me that you came asking when you did, when it was too late.”
Vern’s look darkened. “You knew it was too late, you knew she was going to die, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Blaine said without hesitation. “But I don’t reject useful tools. I saw your worth and gave you what you asked for—a fair deal.” He took a measured sip from a glass of dark liquid. “You served those two years admirably. Now, I’d like your service again.”
Finn let out a sharp laugh. “Not a chance. Let’s go.” He spun on his heel, heading for the door.
Vern hesitated, searching for a reason to stay but finding none. He followed Finn’s lead.
“I know where your mother is.” Blaine’s voice cut through the air like a knife. The word mother landed with venom as his eyes bored into Vern.
He met Blaine’s gaze, even as his stomach twisted in knots. Air felt heavier here somehow.
Blaine then shifted his attention to Finn. “And your father? He’s still got twelve years left on his contract with the tunneler guild. Vigil’s planning another expansion. Exploratory drilling is already underway. Main shaft drilling starts in under two years—dangerous work, especially for someone with lungs as bad as his, not to mention the back problems. I could make sure he’s taken care of, off the dig teams.”
Vern froze, the pieces clicking into place. “Of course. The Administrator wasn’t here by accident—you wanted us to see your leash on him.”
Blaine just smiled, letting the silence do the work for him.
“What do you know about Mareen?” Vern pressed.
“Far more than you think,” Blaine replied swiftly. “But that’s your reward for the job I need help with in four days.”
Finn took Vern by the arm, “He’s rustin’ lyin’, brotta. Let’s get outta here.”
“When have I ever lied?” Blaine’s tone shifted, cold and sharp now. “The payment I promised is for this job alone. If you want to stay afterward in my service, we’ll negotiate new terms.”
Vern leaned closer to Finn, whispering, “We should at least hear him out. If one job can keep your old man out of the mines, it’s worth considering.”
Finn exhaled slowly, his tension easing. “I don’t trust this snake,” he said but offered no further objections.
“Why do you need us? You have hundreds of sycophants and thugs.”
“Ah, but this job is different—it requires finesse. While Vigil mostly turns a blind eye to my operations, that won’t last if I attract too much attention, especially concerning one of the Great Heresies outlined in our Good Book.”
Finn and Vern looked at each other, puzzlingly.
Great Heresy number two: Unconsecrated melding of flesh and machine.”